


To Have Loved and Lost

by madmadeleine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:07:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madmadeleine/pseuds/madmadeleine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is beginning to discover the danger of sentiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have Loved and Lost

I hate her.

Stop. Hate is irrational. Hate will not bring John back to me.

Ctrl-Z. Try again.

_IhateherIhatehershetookJohnawaysnaredhimbewitchedhimtemptressIhateher_

I emerge from the thought like a swimmer from a pool. (Mind brings up Carl Powers. I make a mental note to delete all details now that the case is over, except those that pertain to John.) Drowning in angst. How dull. I reach for the violin. My fingers start Vivaldi before I can stop myself.

_He never recognized anything I played. He thought it was nice, of course, but he never truly appreciated it. So one night, with a belly full of Chinese takeaway, I gritted my teeth and started “Winter.” Not my favourite of Vivaldi’s works, but the glow of recognition from John and the smile on his face made it all worth it._

Unbidden, Mary slips into the memory, twines herself around John. I shake her off. Mary is not a villain. She is secure enough to let John continue to assist me, which is more than I can say for his previous lovers.

_Butshe’snotjustalovernowshe’ssomuchmorethey’rethinkingofgettingmarriedshould’vesaidsomethingwhenyouhadthechance_

I scrabble around in my bedroom for the cocaine Mycroft neglected to confiscate before I can stop myself. Just as I have loaded the syringe, I realize what is happening and wrench my arm away.

John would not want this for me. John would want me to be happy with him.

The sound that comes out of my mouth is guttural, animal. This is what happens when you let sentiment take over, when you let your heart rule your head. Mycroft said it best: “Caring is not an advantage.” I should have listened. I would give anything to be a machine again.

 _“_ _She's dying, you … machine! Sod this. Sod this, you stay here if you want. On your own.”_  
 _“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”_  
 _“ No. Friends protect people.”_

He forgave me. I knew he would. He forgave me, but my absence drove him into Mary’s arms. I understood, or at least I tried to. Three years is a long time for anyone to be gone.

_I intended to tell him, after I came back, after it was safe. I had a plan, too. He visited my headstone every January. On the third anniversary, I came and hid nearby. I had flowers. I was going to do it properly._

_But there was a woman with him, her arm through his. He wept on her shoulder, she dried his tears. I left. I shouldn’t have been there anyway; I still had Moran to deal with._

I found out later they had been dating for a year. I told Mycroft to do a background check and then let it be.

Where is John, anyway? It’s Saturday night, he’s likely out with Mary. (It used to be Star Trek night, which at the time I violently protested. Now I would give anything to watch unrealistic television with John.) A Saturday near Valentine’s Day, he may be proposing. _Proposing_. My chest aches hollowly.

“Tis better to have loved and lost: / Than never to have loved at all.” Tennyson. Vulgar. Basest sentiment. And wrong. I feel those words reverberating through my body; I feel their lie whispering through my veins. I loved John. I know that now. And I wish I had _~~told him and consequences be damned~~ _ never loved at all. Letting myself succumb to emotion is what destroys me. I haven’t been able to focus on a case for a month.

The work. The work is all that matters. I considered myself married to it, once. I seek comfort in it now.

I open the file sitting on the coffee table and try to focus on the dismembered bodies in a locked room. The sound of quiet sobbing echoes through the flat, and it is not until the next day at the latest crime scene that I deduce the source.


End file.
